Mr Rock and Roll
by Lillith Eris
Summary: Dean Winchester is the "Future of Rock," and he's chin-deep in the chaotic lifestyle. That changes for a while when he meets his biggest fan, Cas Novak, who instills in him a different type of artistic development... until Dean throws a wrench in their relationship and causes them to separate.
1. Chapter 1

Mr. Rock and Roll

The stage stood empty and dark. Echoes of frenzied screams still sounded off the plastic chairs, rustling the garbage left behind from the concert's high. And though the crowd had long since abandoned the Rose Quarter, the star of the show remained riveted to the platform, staring at a man in the front row, whose untidy black hair waved like rushes in the night breeze. His expression did not display awe or euphoria. Rather, anger lit his blue eyes. He glared up at the freckled face above him, fists clenched. "I can't believe you, Dean," he said, his voice soft and strained. "I can't believe I believed you in the first place."

"Cas, I didn't mean to hurt you," Dean insisted, stepping forward with his hands up in a gesture of supplication. "You know I would never—"

"Would you, though?" Cas interrupted, not raising his voice. "I guess you'd rather be stuck in that insanity." The hurt in his tone wounded Dean even more than his words.

Dean glanced at his guitar, resting stage left, still humming the solos it had boasted not long ago. Its red sheen represented the crazy routine of an alcoholic musician whose only consistency was the inconsistency of hectic schedules and constant chaos. His attention returned to Cas. He wanted to assure Cas that it had been a misunderstanding— he'd had nothing to do with the two girls from Memphis. But the truth was, he'd promised to do dinner with Cas after the performance, and he'd stood him up. He'd managed to snub the one guy who'd supported him all the way, his number one fan. Seeing Cas' anger, having Cas confront him like this… he'd fucked up. He always did. Maybe that's why he chose this life. Moving, avoiding anything permanent, appealing to many strangers instead of one friend, because he wouldn't have to deal with consequences or commitment. If he fucked up, he could run away. Always.

But a year ago, a smiling face with a backstage pass took a rock hammer to the cement wall. Something about Cas Novak told Dean that he was better than the cocaine and the booze and adrenaline. For that year, his music had meaning. Reviews in magazines across the world lauded his artistic transformation. But that public praise paled next to the soulful smile that blessed him after every show.

It was a fast friendship… more than friendship. Dean found himself attracted to Cas; he observed Cas' every idiosyncrasy from the way Cas brushed his bottom teeth first to his inability to correctly tie his tie. And… Cas _knew _Dean, could read his mind and body, loved Dean better than anyone ever had. So why, why had it been so easy to betray him? It should have taken more than a little bit of tequila and massive cleavage to convince Dean that those women were a good idea. He'd fucked up again, and now, because of that, he'd destroyed the one person who never left his side. He couldn't even give Cas the sugary lies he used on everyone else. He merely opened his mouth a few times, and slumped his shoulders. He saw Cas step back, and automatically tried to grasp him even though Cas was beyond his reach.

"I don't want your lies, Dean," Cas finished. "Good luck in Seattle, _Mr. Rock and Roll." _With that, Dean's one and only friend exited stage right and walked away, leaving the "Future of Rock" standing alone in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks.

At least two weeks.

Maybe it had been a whole year.

Dean glanced at his watch, then at the crumpled ticket stub curled in his fist. No. Same date. It had only been a few hours, but the combination of stunned confusion and strong alcoholic spirits lengthened minutes into months, or perhaps he just didn't give a damn about time anymore.

People were filing in and out of the room, exchanging tipsy flirtations, congratulations, etc, etc. They congratulated him, too, for such a wonderful performance that was sure to 'shock those asshole critics into awe'. Dean replied to none of them. The only time anyone had his undivided attention was when they walked into the room, because there was a slight possibility that they might be wearing a familiar smile and a badly put together tie.

Eventually, Dean rose to his feet and slouched out the door, his mind a buzzing mess of misery and memories, somehow prevalent through the whiskey haze. Anger, regret, anger, frustration, anger, self-pity, anger. On his way through the back alleyway behind the club, Dean kicked everything in front of him as though it was personally offensive. _Fuck you, Dean, _he thought vehemently, stumbling forward and picking up an empty bottle before launching it at the nearest brick wall, reveling in its satisfying destruction, looking a hell of a lot like his entire life. He wanted to yell and storm and swear but in the midst of his violent anger he also felt a tiring desperation, which brought him to the ground and forced his back against the wall. He'd never be able to get up. Ever. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

_Great show tonight, Dean, _someone congratulated. _I really liked the last song. _

_Thanks, Cas. _The ghost of a smile. _I liked it too._

Dean's fingers itched to grab the cell phone from his jacket pocket. Then he remembered all the sniveling romance movies where the guy called the girl and begged her to take him back, that he'd made a mistake. He hated those movies. So instead of calling the one number he had on speed-dial, he crossed his arms and stared at the garbage dumpster opposite him.

_Hey, Dean? _Cas' sleepy voice.

_Hey what? _A gruff answer.

_Do you like show business?_

A moment of silence while past Dean considers. _I guess._

_Isn't it stressful though?_

_I guess. I don't think about it much._

Silence again while they lay back to back, half naked on the motel bed. The sheets smell like cigarettes but Dean focuses more on the sweeter things, like the soft curve of Cas' spine, the movement of his shoulders when he breathes. Somehow Dean could remember the intricacies of Cas' palms better than his rehearsal schedules.

Dean leaned his head back, his eyes still squeezed shut against the truth of what he'd done. _Fuck you, Dean, _he repeated, lifting his trembling hands to his face. _You changed, remember? You changed for Cas._

His stomach throbbed. Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was just that he was over the legal limit. Didn't matter anymore. He was back to the wild partying and the drunk fangirls throwing their clothes off for him.

He was back to being pathetic.

Part of him expected a sympathetic grin and a helping hand, a voice telling him to sleep it off, it'll be better in the morning. All of him wished it, wanted that comfort so bad it made him nauseous. He was still the same idiot child as before. Slowly, Dean pushed himself into a standing position and shoved his hands into his jacket, knowing he'd have a killer hangover to face in the morning, and no one to face it with.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

After walking away from the stage, away from his friend, all Cas registered was the buzzing in his ears. When he'd confronted Dean about…the event…he'd expected, even hoped, that the performer would deny it, release a slew of excuses and fervent lies, anything to avoid the truth of the matter. Instead, he'd received a desperate, flabbergasted silence. A silence that destroyed the doubts he'd clung to and clarified, grounded the candid truth in certainty. Pushing it aside as a mistaken misunderstanding was no longer possible.

Cas didn't return to the hotel right away. Sitting alone in solitude would only exacerbate his fragmented state of mind. Rather, he wandered inside the auditorium hallways, past the empty food and merchandise stands, post-concert clutter still scattered across the cement ground. Every item drove the betrayal deeper into his heart. Posters lining the walks boasted Dean's freckled features, provoking all the memories whose actuality Cas was beginning to doubt.

Thinking back, Cas started wondering if he should have known better. It wasn't like this was the first time, after all. But regardless of how often people he trusted ruined that trust, he couldn't remember it ever hurting this much. He wondered if it was because he loved Dean more than any of those people.

Friends and family and former girlfriends always told Cas he wore his heart on his sleeve, that he loved too easily. Cas didn't understand how this could be a weakness. For him, it was the only way to draw close to someone. Sure, it made fall-outs and breakups all that more difficult, but it added a beautiful openness to any relationship.

That's how it was with Dean. When he first met the rock star, whose personality was tough and selfish at best, he admired him immediately. The backstage pass won via a radio competition earned Cas admittance to a new opportunity. And considering the opposing nature of their characters, they'd struck up a strong friendship fairly quickly.

Cas stopped in front of another plastered poster, declaring the famous lineup for the night, including his favorite a new tune that Cas remembered Dean writing. Dean, muttering to himself while nursing a beer, humming the same lines over and over under his breath. Dean, drilling Cas for his opinion, finalizing the melody on his acoustic guitar. Dean, pausing in his work to turn next to him and kiss Cas, informing him that it inspired his creative muse.

Clenching his fists at the memory, Dean trudged on, remembering the warm, strong grip on his shoulders, Dean's breath on his neck, firm fingers pressing into his back, the evening turning into night, Dean's artistic process moving from the desk into the hotel bed that smelled of cigarette smoke, though Cas' heart pounding in his head blocked out the reek. Cas recalled the mastery with which Dean explored his body, his hands roaming every inch of Cas' skin, from his face to the most sensitive areas, allowing Cas to reciprocate his affections, making love to him until the early hours of the morning, whispering words into Cas' ear that, in retrospect, must have been lies. The thought burned in Cas' throat, or maybe those were tears. Did he actually at one point share a connection with Dean? Or had he been flattering himself?

He should have known better. The only thing Dean knew was how to use other people. Perhaps Cas disillusioned himself into thinking he could change his musical idol. He should have known better; one can't change a person so deeply ingrained in such a lifestyle. Maybe Dean was simply too cold to hold.


End file.
